Meet Me at My Grave
by V Tsuion
Summary: John was on his way to a cemetery to meet a man he had seen die, following a text from an unlisted number that sounded creepy as anything in and out of context. At least the location fit. But the best part? This was the closest thing to hope that he had.


"Meet me at my grave - S" the text read.

John sat in Sherlock's- what had been Sherlock's chair by the fireplace, staring at the message. The black letters in a sea of white backlight burned into his mind.

Sherlock was _dead_.

John had seen his friend fall from the roof of St. Bart's. He had seen Sherlock's body broken and _dead_ upon the concrete. The text could not be from him.

_But it had to be._

No. It didn't, and he knew it. His phone wouldn't even tell him the number of the sender, "Unlisted," it said. It was a prank or a trap - he knew there were several people who likely wanted him dead too - that was all it could be.

_But-_

No! Sherlock was _DEAD_! He just had to get used to that fact.

_But what if…_

He grabbed the head of his cane - of course, his limp had returned - and forced himself to his feet.

This was ridiculous.

He limped to the door and shoved on his coat.

This could easily be a trap, what if he got himself killed?

_Then so be it._

He knew that way of thinking couldn't be healthy, but there was no way around it.

He maneuvered down the stairs and called a cab. Several passed him by before he realized why. His reflection stared back at him for only an instant in the windows of passing cars, but he saw himself clearly. He looked ragged and unkempt. His clothes looked like they had been on for too long and his face was covered in uneven stubble. His eyes were wild and desperate.

Finally, a cab stopped anyway and he got in, instructing the man to take him to the cemetery.

_No turning back now._

Brilliant. He was on his way to a cemetery to meet a man he had seen die. At least the location fit. But the best part? This was the closest thing to hope that he had.

John let out a harsh, dry laugh, that sounded closer to a sob - he wasn't so sure that it wasn't one.

"Are you alright?" the cabby said hesitantly, as if he were unsure he wanted to be asking, John didn't blame him in the least.

John shook his head, but answered, "I'm fine," all the same.

It wasn't long before they reached the cemetery - Sherlock had asked to be buried in the city. John stepped out and trudged up the path, continuing on his mad mission.

He glanced at his phone, still clutched in his hand, to make sure that the text was still there, that he hadn't hallucinated it for lack of sleep. It was still there, though of course he could still be hallucinating…

But that was a bad assumption to act upon, just in case he wasn't.

And the assumption that a dead man had texted him was a better option?

He made his way over to the all too familiar grave site. It was still fresh, the grass that covered the other plots was a long way in coming.

He stared at the headstone as it reflected his form back at him. He had found Sherlock; six feet under.

This was absurd.

"Hello." a man creaked from behind him.

John jumped and spun to face the source of the noise. It was a little old man, doubled over, clutching a cane.

"Are you looking for someone?" the old man asked, his voice almost painfully scratchy.

John sighed and nodded, "Yes." though perhaps a no would have been more accurate…

"Good meeting places are hard to find," the man remarked, "Have to be careful you're not being watched, and there are cameras everywhere."

Great. It seemed the old man was paranoid, though John supposed he was one to talk, chasing a possibly hallucinatory text from a dead man. Real or not, the worst part was that he believed it-

"But I know a safe place, follow me." the man continued, grabbing John by the arm.

"Wait! There's someone-" John exclaimed, before stopping himself short.

This was absurd. Sherlock was dead. He shouldn't have come to begin with, but now that he had, he might as well follow the old man. Who knew, maybe it would be interesting, at the very least, take his mind off of things…

Surprisingly strong for someone of his age, the man dragged John through the cemetery, into the church, down several hallways, up a few flights of stairs, into a dusty old attic. It looked like it was full of boxes, never used. No one would ever think to look there…

Shit!

The "old man" stretched himself out, proving to be much more limber than John would have expected.

He had guessed this would be a trap, he had said it to himself over and over again, but no, he was so desperate, and even when it was so obvious he couldn't even tell. There had to be some way out-

"Ah, that's much better." he heard Sherlock say, the detective's voice emanating from what, moments before, had been a little old man.

And now he was sure he was hallucinating.

"Though, if it wasn't me, you'd probably be dead by now." Sherlock continued.

"I... I- I realized that…" John said, staring at Sherlock, dazed, his eyes wide in disbelief.

There was a long pause as Sherlock continued to stretch.

"You- you're alive…" John managed to get out.

"Yes, do keep up." Sherlock replied, with a slight smile.

John hesitated.

Could this be real? Sherlock was _dead_. He saw him _die_! Was he hallucinating? Was he dreaming - if so, he hopped he never woke up. But there Sherlock was, standing right in front of him. _Alive_. But he couldn't be. This couldn't be real! There was only one way to find out…

John slowly extended a hand, reaching out for something solid that he could grasp on to; to root him into reality.

What if he wasn't real? What if he hallucinated the contact?

John hesitated, but he had to!

He extended his hand and it ran into Sherlock's shoulder.

Solid! Alive! What if he was hallucinating it?

All the while Sherlock was watching him with those sharp eyes, keenly observing, his expression concerned.

"John… Are you alright? You look terrible." Sherlock finally spoke, gently removing John's hand from his shoulder to hold it gingerly in his own.

John let out a harsh laugh of agreement and relief and confusion and everything that came tumbling down around him. And he found himself laughing and crying all at once, doubled over as his sides ached and he could barely breathe, but he couldn't stop. John didn't know where he was or what was going on or if it was real or just a dream or a hallucination and he was ecstatic and terrified and he could feel himself falling apart at the seams.

He found himself sitting on the ground in the dusty attic, clinging to a very confused, if worried, Sherlock.

"John… Are you alright?" Sherlock attempted.

John nodded, forcing himself to extricate himself from him, "I'm… alive…" he replied lamely.

"That's an accurate assessment of the situation, yes."

John nodded again, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Sherlock hesitated, "I-I'm sorry for the shock. Jim" - he grimaced - "And I were up on the roof and he said he had snipers posed to kill you and Ms. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade unless I jumped. I didn't have a choice."

"How- how did you survive?"

"Oh, a bit of magic," Sherlock grinned, "You know a conjurer gets no credit once he has explained his trick."

John couldn't place the quote, but it seemed fitting enough.

There was a moment's pause and he looked at Sherlock, sitting there, _alive_. It didn't matter how it had happened, just that it had. Sherlock was _alive_, he hadn't died there… But that meant there were more questions that needed answering.

John suddenly broke the silence, gaining steam as he talked, "You know you could have visited me, at home. Or perhaps sent me a less cryptic text, sooner perhaps, or maybe said something in that suicide note of yours!"

Sherlock grimaced, "I wasn't lying earlier. Your apartment's being watched."

"By whom?" John interrupted, "Moriarty's dead, isn't he? Or did he survive to?"

"No, he's dead. But he had friends, quite a few of them. There's no way to know they weren't watching, listening; that's why I called and left the 'note' in the first place. It had to be believable… It doesn't help that my dear older brother has decided to put me and you under surveillance as well - he doesn't want me contacting you. This is the only place I could think of where it would be natural for you to go, and there aren't any cameras to see us either way. No one would think to look for us here-"

"So it'll be the perfect crime." a gruff voice said from the doorway.

It was a tall, rough man, simply dressed. He wore black gloves and carried an army issue sniper rifle, complete with a silencer, pointed towards them.

John leaped to his feet, stepping between Sherlock and the unknown assailant, his pistol drawn.

"I'd put that down, if I were you. A gun's not a toy, though that one's close." Moran taunted, "And after you were so cooperative, too. Though I was sure I had lost you for a little while there."

"Sebastian Moran is it?" Sherlock asked conversationally, before John could say anything, "Jim's pet sniper," he explained with a grimace.

"You're one to talk of keeping pets." Moran retorted, cocking the gun with a loud click.

John pulled the trigger without a second thought. A loud bang echoed through the church. Sebastian Moran fell to the ground.

"We need to get out of here," Sherlock exclaimed, pulling back on his disguise, "I'm supposed to be dead, and you don't need the publicity."

"How do you suppose we do that?" John demanded, the sound of footsteps already pounded on the stairs.

"Follow me."

Sherlock pulled open the window.

"Sherlock, don't!" John exclaimed, his voice shaking with fear as the image of the man before him, falling to his death, flashed across his mind's eye.

"Don't worry." Sherlock grabbed John's hand in a way he hopped was reassuring, "We're climbing out, we've just got to go quickly!" he threw both their canes out ahead of them.

Somehow they managed to clamor down the side of the building as they heard people shouting from inside. A black car was waiting for them in the driveway. They piled in and they were off.

For a moment they sat side by side in the back of the car, catching their breaths.

"That was…" John began, glancing at Sherlock.

Their eyes met and they couldn't help but begin to laugh uncontrollably, doubled over, their sides aching.

"Brilliant, Sherlock! Positively brilliant!" John exclaimed sarcastically, as soon as he could talk, "Climbing out the window, what were we thinking? What if someone had seen us?"

"It would have been a strange sight indeed." Sherlock replied, a wide grin across his face, "People will talk now." he teased.

John grinned back, "Let them."


End file.
